


the clouds above move closer

by autumnalbee (redherring)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redherring/pseuds/autumnalbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Happy Valentine’s Day.”</p><p>John laughs humorlessly. He’d completely forgotten about it. “Not a very happy one, I’m afraid.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the clouds above move closer

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't felt comfortable writing Jolto until very recently. I'm still not sure I "get" James very well yet, but baby steps, right?

John leaves the campfire with the rest of his mates. He waves, says his goodnights. Murray asks him if he’s coming to bed, but John assures him he’s just going to spend a little while outside. It’s a nice night; the sky is clear, and the moon isn’t quite full, but gives off enough light for him to be able to find his way without needing the lights outside the camp.  
  
He sits down in front of the med tent, a beer in his hand. They’re technically not supposed to be drinking, but today hasn’t been great, to say the very least. John’s spent nearly twelve hours stitching men back together, one after the other. Some are still alive. Some aren’t. He hasn’t let himself think about it too much yet. Another unit had come as their aid, but by then it was too late. As soon as he was finished, he’d gone to the mess hall with everyone else, expecting some sort of somber dinner, but instead there were cases of beer and a rowdy company waiting for him.  
  
John takes a long swig from his bottle. He’d feel guilty about the drink, too, but the other unit is taking over their rounds tomorrow. It’s about damned time the Fifth had a day off, he thinks.  
  
He knows if he sits for too long he’ll start thinking about what’s happened. He’s gone through this at least once every goddamned tour, and it’s not getting any easier to stomach. He knows James is only doing as he’s told, knows that it’s the only thing that could have been done, knows that they’d escaped with the least casualties and injuries as possible, but it doesn’t make John feel any better.  
  
Someone sits beside him and sighs. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”  
  
John laughs humorlessly. He’d completely forgotten about it. “Not a very happy one, I’m afraid.”  
  
“No,” James grunts in agreement. “It isn’t.”  
  
The silence that follows is comfortable. John’s known James the longest out of everyone in his unit; they’ve recently gotten in a bunch of new recruits, and John doesn’t even know all their names yet. Which doesn’t make the events of the day feel any better, knowing they were just kids. John’s stomach turns a bit before James speaks again.  
  
“You did your job today, Watson. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”  
  
John nods.  
  
“It’s a nice night.” James leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him. Somehow his fingers end up on top of John’s, a gentle, reassuring weight. Neither of them move their hand out of the way.  
  
They’ve done this so many times before that it’s almost become a ritual, straddling the line between professional behavior and… whatever this was. Hell, maybe John’s just imagining it all. He’s not a lightweight by any means, and he’s only on his second beer, but he knows what alcohol can do even in small doses, and he’s pretty sure he’s just imagining that James’ gaze lingers on his lips a bit before he turns to look up at the sky.  
  
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s not. Either way, something in John’s brain snaps, and he leans forward and kisses James’ lips as adeptly as any man who’s already had a couple. The fact that James is his CO doesn’t seem to cross his mind. That’s the sort of thing that comes in the morning, anyway.  
  
Apparently, it doesn’t occur to James, either., because he’s sliding a hand up into John’s hair, holding him in place. That sets a fire in John’s belly, and he leans in closer, nearly falling into James’ lap. James tugs at John’s hair just sharply enough to get him to pull away, and he whispers, “My tent,” before standing up and dusting off his fatigues like he hadn’t just been snogging his inferior.  
  
John does the same, scanning the camp for any bystanders. There aren’t any—at least, none that he can see clearly.  
  
James heads for his tent, his stride as even and steady as if he were on duty. John’s not really paying attention to that, though. He’s watching his arse. Granted, their fatigues don’t do much for that sort of thing, but it’s there, and damned if John isn’t going to admire it while he can.  
  
He nearly runs into James, who’s stopped just outside his tent. There’s a pained look on his face, and John’s about to ask what’s wrong, but then he disappears behind the tent flap, and it’s not like John’s going to choose not to follow him inside.  
  
James’ tent is bigger than the ones reserved for the lieutenants, and bigger than John’s, too. It doesn’t look comfortable—it’s difficult for anything to be comfortable in the middle of the fucking desert—but it looks lived-in, at least, and the faint glow of lamplight gives everything a yellowish tint. James is waiting for him by the small writing desk next to his bed, hands shoved in his pockets.  
  
They stand and stare at each other for a minute. John can’t read anything from James’ expression; his eyes are shining, but his face is as stern as ever. A long minute passes, and John, sick of the tension—or the silence, one or the other—drops to his knees and fumbles at James’ trousers.  
  
John’s done this before. It’s something you get used to when you’re surrounded by a bunch of blokes for months, sometimes years at a time. He doesn’t think much about it now, though his sexuality has been all over the place since he was a lieutenant all those years ago.  
  
He takes James’ cock out of his pants and weighs it in his hand, giving it a slow pull. He hears James swallow above him, so he does it again, this time letting his thumb graze over the tip and down his slit. John does it the way he likes it, with a twist of the wrist, and it looks like that’s the way James likes it, too, because he inhales sharply.  
  
As soon as it’s bright pink, John takes James’ cock into his mouth, keeping his hand wrapped around the base. He teases; at first, he takes only the head, suckling and kissing and licking up the drop of precome that develops. But then he starts taking James further, centimeters at a time, while his hand works the rest of James’ length. He glances up, and the look and slight shiver James gives him makes his cheeks heat and his heart race and his own cock throb. James puts his hands in John’s hair, not tugging, but running his hands through. John can feel James’ fingers combing through the dirt and sweat no doubt coating his head, and somehow that gesture, the fact that James doesn’t care how gross John’s hair is, urges him on.  
  
He takes James whole, gagging as saliva runs out of his mouth and down his chin. He’d be embarrassed, but James makes a noise that’s so soft and gentle and so _not like James_ that John can’t be bothered with shame. He grabs James’ hips and starts sucking in earnest, his tongue swirling as he bobs his head.  
  
Suddenly James tugs once on John’s hair. “Stop,” he croaks, and John does, pulling his mouth away, a string of spit still connecting his lips to James’ cock.  John worries for a moment, his judgment finally coming back to him—he’s going to get fired; James is going to tell him this is wildly inappropriate and he’s going to get a citation and—  
  
But James puts a finger under John’s chin, pulling him up to a standing position again, and kisses him, He puts his hands on John’s arms and maneuvers them both toward the bed, their lips still locked. James pushes John onto the bed firmly but carefully enough so that he doesn’t land funny, and he pulls John’s half-hard cock out of his pants.  
  
Any self-control John might have had goes out the window.  
  
He gasps at James’ touch, but then James moves over him and wraps a hand around them both, and John can’t help it, he moans. Not only is James’ hand pumping their cocks, but he’s moving his hips along with the rhythm he’s set, pressing chaste kisses to John’s neck and jaw all the while. John can’t do much else but lie there, hands resting on James’ biceps as he tries to push up into the friction, but James’ hand on his arm keeps him from rising off the bed too far. James kisses and licks and nips at the spot right where John’s neck meets his shoulder, and it sends shivers up his spine as the heat in John’s belly is near to overflowing.  
  
It’s all too much and all too soon, and before he knows it, John’s seeing white and arching his back as he comes with a muffled shout. James isn’t too far behind him, shuddering and releasing a long sigh as he spills onto John’s stomach. The look in his eyes is entirely new to John, and though he’s too blissed out to give it much thought, it’s a sight that he tucks away for later.  
  
The bed’s too small for both of them to lie on, so James climbs off of it and collapses into his chair. He doesn’t look much different than he does on any other day, even with his cock out, John notices, though perhaps he’s a bit more tired. John pulls off his t-shirt—it’s covered in come; there’s no way he can wear it back to his tent and still hold his head up—and leans on one elbow, looking at James from the bed.  
  
The silence that follows is not the companionable silence from outside. It’s a chafing silence. The more John looks at James, the more he wants to get up, go over, and kiss the tiredness away from him. But all James does is tuck himself back into his trousers with all the dignity in the world.  
  
“It’s late, Watson,” he says quietly, standing up. He doesn’t look at John, but he heads outside. “Better get some sleep.”  
  
The minute the tent flap falls behind James, the last bit of warmth is extracted from John’s body. He bundles the t-shirt up and walks outside. James is nowhere to be seen.  
  
Valentine’s Day, indeed.


End file.
